Grandma

The last few days I have been thinking an awful lot about my grandmother. She died more than sixteen years ago and I still miss her.

Each summer, my brother and sister and I would spend about five days at my grandparents. These days would begin with the sound of my grandmother making us breakfast and the smell of cooked bacon drifting through the house. After breakfast, my grandmother would make a lunch for us and she and my grandfather would take us on a day trip somewhere. We would go to the Cape or to the zoo or to Plymouth. In the evening my grandmother would make us dinner...something simple but always delicious. And at night she would tuck us in and tell us that she loved us.

More than the smell of bacon or the day trips I remember how I felt when I was with my grandmother; safe, loved, cared for, secure...all of the things a little boy should feel all of the time.

When I moved to Massachusetts in my mid-twenties I made it a point to see my grandparents a few times a month. On most visits I shared a meal with them. I remember down to the detail the last meal my grandmother made for me.

More than the smell of dinner being made or the times spent chatting in her living room I remember how I felt when I was with my grandmother; affirmed, loved, and supported...all of the things a young man should feel when he is with his family.

In a manner of speaking, my grandmother is still with me, I use her pots and pans to cook with, I grill my steaks on her hibachi, and I listen to her radio in the evening. But more than the artifacts of her life, I have with me her example of how people should be treated...with kindness and with respect...and the example of how children should be made to feel...safe, loved, cared for, and secure...all of the time.

She died more than sixteen years ago...and I still miss her.